Primal
by Nenalata
Summary: There's something wrong with the man, and she isn't sure if her love for him is blinding her. Rated M for Sexual Themes.


There are days when he terrifies her, her husband. It's never something she can put a name to; rather, it's an emotion behind far-off eyes gazing at another world, or the peculiar silence after he plays a wrong note in practice and before he starts the line over. These moments she captures in her memory, her animalistic instinct of unease seared into her nerves so she can feel the discomfort coursing through her body at will.

There's something wrong with the man, and she isn't sure if her love for him is blinding her.

The worst part of it is that he notices when something about him frightens her. Doesn't quite understand the "what" or the "why," but he's perceptive enough that he knows something is off. The tone of her voice is too low, he always says. And then a smile, an elegant and beautiful crinkle of the eyes and curve of the lips, to let her know that he cares. Cares and is worried.

Well, she's worried, too, but there's a part of her that's afraid of lying to him, so she says the same thing, that he seemed so far away, and her husband gets that tender look in his eyes that says he understands, and then the fear is gone as he holds her and presses gentle kisses against her bandana.

He thinks she's intimidated by him, by his genius and his talent and his ambitions, and she knows it makes him sad to believe his wife finds herself unworthy of his affections, but she can't bear to tell him that while that might have bothered her a while ago, the worry has faded, replaced by something more primal.

It's fear, yes, unadulterated fear, but there's more to it than that because she loves him. She's afraid not just for herself but for him; not just for him but their future; not just for their future but for their overall happiness. Because they're married now, and that means togetherness and happiness and "in sickness and in health"ness, and if he's sick then she needs to know.

But most days this doesn't bother her. Most days, she's content to come home from a long day on the mountain to find him cooking dinner with that same sweet smile. Most days, she can gossip with the other women her age about what those long fingers are good for besides playing violin. Most days, she can recline on the couch reading a book while he draws syrupy low notes and graceful highs from that ninety-year-old heirloom.

And herein lies the danger, because when everything is normal she can convince herself she's imagining things. It's worse—or maybe better—when he's reunited with his instrument, because that's what drew her to him in the first place, the ease with which he navigates its strings. There's something seductive in his legato, something carnal in the way his wrist moves with his vibrato, something orgasmic in his crescendos leading to double-stops leading to a wailing high G with a fermata. Her patience is commendable each night as she waits for him to put the violin away so she can properly drag him to bed.

He's a passionate man, yet reserved, and this translates easily into their intimate moments. He's a marvel, experienced and reciprocating, but she can always tell that he's holding something back. It frustrates her, sure, but once his breathing turns even and the sweat is cooling on her back, she's no longer sure if she wants to break that composure. She knows he's not afraid of hurting her, or embarrassed about some secret fetish, and so the disturbing mystery remains of what he's keeping hidden. It's here that the unease returns without fail, and while she's never driven away from him, never, she does sometimes spend a few hours staring at his face in the half-light as if she can divine his secrets from his sleeping figure.

It's after one such a night that she tries to face reality, but all she manages to do is avoid him and wring her hands. Unsure of where to turn, she takes her time collecting wildflowers on the mountain and chats with the boys from town. Each day, she comes home a little later, hoping he'll be asleep, but he's in the living room waiting for her with a smile and a concerto in his hand.

So she spends a little more time away from the farm. She's up at dawn and fleeing for the literal hills, inspecting each bug and fish and herb a little more studiously than she might have while in another mood. The delivery boy asks her to take a walk with him by the river, and she agrees without thinking too long about how quickly gossip travels in a small rural town.

It's not a big river, but it's a long conversation she has, and the stars are peeking through the autumn sunset by the time she makes it home. She's aware it's been a while longer than she, even in this state, had intended to be out, and her mouth is full of apologies she knows he'll accept as she opens her front door.

Instead, she's met with an icy glare. It pierces her chest with lightning-fast accuracy, and she gasps from the pain it brings. His arms are crossed over his chest—a closed gesture. His coat has been tossed over his favorite armchair, and while its lack makes him appear smaller, in a way he seems more threatening without it. But he's silent.

Tears threaten to spill down her cheeks. She's never seen her husband like this before, and the guilt and pain elicited by his reaction sends cold daggers stabbing into her heart. The tears win their battle, and as they course down her face she stammers her apologies so whole-hearted they make a new flood of tears appear.

He stalks toward her and, grasping her by the shoulders once he arrives, pushes her against the wall. His lips are upon hers shortly after, and while on another day she might have been grateful for his forgiveness, there's a ferocity in his kisses that renders her helpless. She's had him desperate before, and lustful, but this is not quite either of those. He knows the reaction he wants from her, and he seems to be the master of his own actions, which is as terrifying as if he were out of his mind.

He's rough in his movements as he tugs off her vest, but not enough to hurt her. Yet it feels like he's completely letting go of all his previous inhibitions, which is almost a relief, since if this is how he was afraid of behaving before, it's pretty tame. This thought is cut off with her yelp as he bites the top of her breast through her unbuttoned shirt, and he chuckles at the sound, low and dark. He doesn't let her take off the shirt by herself, and once he's yanked it off her shoulders he pulls her towards the bed, grabbing her hips and practically tossing her onto the comforter.

He shrugs out of his shirt and unbuttons his pants with a deceptively nonchalant aura, and though his expression is fairly neutral, his eyes are burning with something terrifying that sends a thrill through her entire body. She tries to wiggle out of her skirt but he shoots her a look and she freezes. Dimly, she's aware that he's doing this not to punish her, not to establish dominance or anything so un-him-like, but because he there really is something dangerously unpredictable about him, and if she had any sense or self-respect she'd run out the door or cry for help or simply tell him _stop_.

Instead, she admires the pale landscape of his body as he settles over her, pulling down her skirt and underclothes in the process. He kisses her again, ravages her mouth with his tongue as his hands move downward, and before long she's gasping his name into his lips, her fingernails trying to find purchase on the comforter from where his free hand has pinned down her arms above her head. He pulls his face back to watch her, eyes half-closed as he observes her writhe and moan beneath him, and she knows there's a symphony playing in his head right now, and that she's going perfectly along with it. She can tell when she's reached a vital point in the music because his fingers change their angle and she screams in ecstasy, feeling the world come thundering down in a perfect decrescendo.

He doesn't give her time to collect herself before he's inside her, but again he seems to be following the music in his head, not his own enjoyment. He presses open-mouthed kisses to her neck as she begins to move with him, and though she tries to meet his steady gaze with each movement of their hips, her eyes eventually slip closed and she's lost to her own pleasure again. He is quick and powerful, and it doesn't take long for her to slip over the edge again, her pulse thudding in her ears as she tries to catch her breath, and it surprises her when he follows her shortly after.

The comforter is soaked, his breathing is fast and heavy, but the intensity in his gaze as continues to hold himself up over her prevents her from wanting to change position. Finally, with a tired laugh that wipes the hardness from his face, he rolls over onto his side of the bed and slides a hand through his sweat-slicked hair. She stares at his profile for a few seconds before she rolls down the comforter enough to slide between the sheets and mattress. She almost wants to apologize again, but instinct halts her before the thought has even fully solidified. Instead, she closes her eyes and wills sleep to come, which it does, although even in her dreams she can feel his eyes on her.

In the morning he is cheerful and even offers to make breakfast for the two of them, and while she accepts and they chatter over egg custard about senseless matters, that intensity isn't gone from his expression. She has the feeling that something inside him as been unlocked, and that he's hesitant to shut it up again.

Though he must sense how ill at ease she is, like he always does, he just grins at her and sips his tea when he catches her staring. She lets out a quiet, relieved exhale. Perhaps the previous night was the extent of his odd disposition. When she leaves the house to do her chores, he's already picked up his violin and is chirping pretty major key etudes that stay humming in her head the rest of the day.

As she finds herself singing along to his tunes halfway down the mountain, she makes a decision. She will no longer fear him. She will no longer doubt him. She will accept him wholly and with all the love she has to give.

She whistles a snippet of the melody to a passing mockingbird, and after a few tries it's sort of got the hang of it. A chorus of her husband's music accompanies her as she trips down the mountainside, and she has a smile prepared for him that evening when she returns home. He blinks slowly from his armchair when the door opens, as if waking from a dream, and though that uncaged look in his eyes hasn't quite gone away, his answering smile makes her believe that everything is back to normal.

* * *

_AN: Yes, another crazy!Mikhail story from me. Sorry about that, especially since I'm not really sure what happened with this one. I had an idea, and then…plink, here it is, on your internet browser for you to read. I'd love to hear what you think, if you made it to the end, since I haven't quite written something like this before and am unsure of how I feel about it. So constructive criticism is great, your thoughts are great, and you are great. You are great for reading my story to the end and not giving up on it. So, thanks so much!_


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